Awakening
by Child of the Golden Leaves
Summary: After a strange turn of events, the members of the original fellowship, now with their own lives, are reunited (at some point). This action-packed, "accurate" version of what happened after the end of RotK and before the Appendices is sure to please any
1. Intro

(_Title)_

_Introduction_

After spending a time in Ithilien, Legolas silently and furtively boarded the ship. It was a grand vessel: dark red wood and white sails, fluttering in the wind that echoed through the bay. To many of his kin, it was a symbol of freedom. To him, it was a cage. He said softly: "Although I remained here to destroy the Ring and return Aragorn to the throne, with every clash of arms I formed my own chains of iron which would drag me away to this ship. So passes my time. Long live the Age of Men."

He leaned over the edge of the ship as it was leaving the harbor. The cool mist sprayed his face: the tears he wept inside for the grief of leaving that which he loved. He wiped the water from his face and looked up to see that the ship sailed swiftly and smoothly over the water, like a knife on the flesh. He turned in dismay to see the harbor shrink in the hazy mist of distance. He was departing Middle Earth forever, never again to see Aragorn or any other comrades he had formed. He broke the bond of fellowship he formed with the Hobbits he had risked his life for. He was leaving the place for which he gambled his immortality. He utterly yearned for song at his lips, but only those of the Shire or of the Golden Hall of Meduseld hovered in his thoughts, and they were too painful to be heard, now only memories, slowly vanishing as they neared Valinor. He seemed to posses a bittersweet sense of his passing into the edge of myth. Suddenly grief smote him like lightning unto a stormy sky. He recalled his song of the sea, and pondered why he was so eager to leave. His emotions wrenched inside him, for the sorrow was overbearing. He thought to himself. _No ship can bear me to Valinor: the land which remains evergreen, for my heart truly lies in Middle Earth- in Gondor and Rohan, with all of the friends I hold dear. Farewell, at last. The sea has claimed me, just as the Lady of the Light foretold_. _The gulls cry at my coming. . .Farewell!_ He could endure the pain no longer; he swooned in despair.


	2. Chapter I

"My lord," Legolas woke to the beckoning of his father's guards. They spoke the language of Quenya: the language of the High Elves. He reached into his mind to speak his nearly forgotten native tongue; he was accustomed to speaking Sindarin or Common Tongue amongst Gandalf and Aragorn. "My lord?" His father had sent for him to come to Valinor at once. Legolas had ignored the tidings of his father and resolved to depart after his duty and oath was held fulfilled. "My lord?" the voice continued. Legolas opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the eyes of his father's faithful guard and friend, Elrandïl.

"Elrandïl," said Legolas quietly. "You mustn't call me that." He looked around for a moment, hoping he was in Mirkwood again, but found the nightmare of Valinor true. He was still on the ship that was bearing him there. He looked at the floorboards of the vessel. His face felt cold against the fine, red wood. He sat slowly upright. His departure still seemed surreal.

"That is the proper address for a prince, is it not?" asked Elrandïl, helping Legolas to his feet.

"Nay," said Legolas. "Not for me. I hold no honor in retreating to Valinor to hide away forever." Elrandïl looked into the keen, saddening eyes of Legolas. They no longer gleamed brightly with intensity, but rather stared back glumly.

"Our time is ended. We must leave. There is nothing left for us." Elrandïl said smoothly. Legolas looked with misty eyes into Elrandïl's and saw the sea: his doom. Elrandïl saw this and spoke again. "You mustn't yearn for the friend you found in the man Aragorn of Middle Earth. His is only mortal. There is nothing that can change that." He walked off slowly, in such a graceful manner that it could not even be called walking; he seemed to nearly float along, another characteristics of the Elves. Gimli came to him and raised him to his feet. "Pay no heed," he said soothingly. "We have done what we must. It is a great honor to be sailing to the undying lands with your kin." Legolas paid little attention to Gimli; his sentiments were well meant, but Legolas was absorbed in thought and the lapping of the waves against the ship.

Before long, the ship was making good haste across the water, like a diamond unto glass. He peered across the placid water, his bright eyes flashed and lit with a glaring blue fire, scanning the horizon for sight of land. To his horror, he saw it. "Vailnor," he said tonelessly.

"Only an hours' journey from here," said another Elf. Legolas did not know him. He was no doubt another of his father's aides. With his keen eyes shielded from the sun by his slender fingers, Legolas could scarcely see the landscape, but he needed no sight for its description. He knew plenty well the tales of the Undying Land: beautiful trees consumed the land, leaving no land bare to the eyes of the sea. The golden leaves fell across the soft ground, yet the trees always remained full. The grass was light and springy. Even in the dew of morning, a heavy boot would not leave a print. The sweet air was good to breathe and the clarity of the water was widely known. It was clear and crisp and cool. It quenched the parched souls of the Elves, keeping their spirits graceful. Everyone and everything was at peace there, living in Elysium. Legolas knew better. He knew that as soon as he set foot on the beach, he would be all but calm inside. Deep within the confines of his emotions, screaming at the top of his lungs, calling out to anyone who could release him from the eternal prison of immortality. He would cry out like a wounded animal enclosed in a trap while its enemies begin to advance. And no matter how loud he called, the world was quiet and neglecting.

He knew that the ship lurked ever closer to Valinor, but suddenly wondered what he expected to happen. How would he escape this fate? Was he only delaying the inevitable? Panic struck him, and he quickly searched for options. He frantically looked to the shore, which was only a few leagues off. He had never felt such panic in his life. He quickly readied a small row boat located on the ship. Elrandïl caught him, and begged him to desist. He put up such an argument and nearly a fight to prevent him from leaving.

"Your father sent for you!" he said. "I mustn't return without you,"

"I can't be here. I must go back to Middle Earth where I belong," protested Legolas, still struggling for control of the boat to throw it over the side. At last, he prevailed and the boat fell with a splash into the pristine blue of the water. This caused others to notice, as well as Gimli. Legolas began to dive over the side when he was suddenly jolted backwards, striking his head on the wooden planks. He lay still for a quick moment, his hand over his brow, then jolted suddenly upward in an automatic defense stance which he had grown accustomed to during the war. He sank away from those who had joined Elrandïl, like a helpless wild thing, cornered in the darkness and put up against a struggle it would not likely defeat. In a last attempt, he leapt atop the side railing and stood tall over the crowd that had gathered.

"The sea shall not take me," he said quietly. He frantically searched for an escape, talking only to distract the crowd and even himself until he devised another plan. He wanted loose not just from the ship, but from Valinor: from immortality. With skill, he tore his knife from its sheath and held it above his chest. Gimli shouted out in protest.

"Legolas!"

Aragorn rubbed his fingers together and irritably clenched a fist. His eyes began to search the parchment sent to him form Valinor. He re-read the fine print of the Elves over and over, hoping he may have over looked a consequential factor. He realized he had not, and he dropped the paper, gravely watching it sail gracefully to the marble stone of the hall.

"What is it, my lord?" asked his adjutant.

"This is troubling news," said Aragorn. "You are certain?" The adjutant nodded solemnly while his eye brows knitted in a confused expression. Aragorn waved him away. After the errand runner had left, Aragorn rose from his throne and paced down the hall, his every step echoing off the grand walls, reminding him of how alone he was becoming. He stormed through the grand doors and picked up his pace to a run and hastened through the courtyard of stone and continued until he reached the White Tree, which, although snow blanketed all else, remained nearly untouched, with only a light layer of snow, and still the leaves reacted as if it was the peak of spring. Arwen sat underneath it, reading peacefully as a few leaves swayed down gently and settled at the trails of her dress. This surprised her; the leaves seldom fell from the tree. She looked up and flashed her bright eyes at him. "You are uneasy," she said, rising to greet him. Her flowing voice which usually quenched the fires that burned his heart, was a mere trickle where a waterfall was needed. "I can sense it in your very bones, and in the tree. It feels your weakness."

"I have received distressing news." he said. He bowed his head and barely sputtered out the verity he learned. "Legolas never reached Valinor," he said. The grief made him quake, and he suddenly bent down and was reduced to one knee. He laid his brow against his knee, trying to cope with the new tidings he had received. Arwen helped him to his feet and accompanied him back into the palace of stone. Aragorn revived his spirits and continued to speak: "This is ill news indeed," he began thoughtfully. Arwen was strangely silent; she had no common words of comfort for him. The words also pierced her heart with sorrow. They both turned to look at each other, but each was at a loss for words and didn't know where to begin or what to think. At last, Arwen spoke. "There is still hope. Always, there is hope."

Legolas opened his eyes. He stared up into a pale blue sky. A mix of rain and snow was among the clouds, and a myriad of drops fell on his face. He blinked slowly, regaining his memory of the day past. He sat up and found that he was on the shore. He hadn't gone to Valinor. He had in fact, succeeded in waiving his predicted fate and ended up on the familiar shores of Middle Earth. He saw the boat he had used overturned and floating merrily just off shore. H remembered that he had threatened to take his life, and leapt into the boat. The rest was a faded blur of waves and memories. Nonetheless, he finally managed his footing and stretched on his feet. He breathed deep. The air seemed balmy. To his surprise (and liking), there were no gulls to lure him back. No birds of the sea to bring him where he refused to go. He aimed now for Minas Tirith, to the hall of the King Aragorn. It was a long journey, especially through the winter months of the land, but he faced it any how, and was almost festive in the thought. He gathered his things which had been strewn across the shore and set off at once.

He traveled on foot for a good many days, but was soon wearied for lack of food and water. He had not the _lembas _bread, the way-bread of his people. This had given him strength for the journeys he made with Aragorn and Gimli in the days of the Ring, while they tracked the Uruk-hai, captors of their companions. Not having this extra needed boost of energy, he was depleted within a day or two. He rested often, but slept little, Gimli constantly on his mind. He regretted leaving him, but was glad to be back where he belonged. He hoped Gimli would fair well in Valinor, and tried not to bring the subject up often. His thoughts hovered from time to time about Aragorn and Arwen, and also of Éomer and of his fair sister.

In the dew of morning, he set out again. He trudged slowly through the murky shadows and deep snow. He had gone yet another night without sufficient sleep. He shivered at the cold breeze that ran through the valley as he traveled ever eastward. He could see in the distance the tower of Isengard, a dead and forgotten threat. He originally was going to go straight towards Minas Tirith, but then decided otherwise after realizing he would risk the perilous journey over the mountains. He left the banks of the river Isen only two days before, and was now marching through a the fog, which seemed so thick that it nearly choked his throat. He traveled wearily through the day, changing paces constantly to regain his stamina. He would often lose his footing and trip over the ice and snow that seemed to consume the land and smother Middle Earth in its entirety. Long after dark, he wore on, feeling it was unsafe to stop in the open. He was crossing through the Gap of Rohan. The air was quite cool and surprisingly dry and thin. It stung his lungs as he breathed it in small gasps after his long run. He could tell that a storm brewed just over head. It threatened to pile the snow even higher, and bring with it arctic winds of the north, chilling all in its path. Legolas knew he mustn't stop there, or he would risk being lost forever in a white abyss.

He saw something move just ahead of him in the fog, though he couldn't be sure. He paused for a moment, and struggled to hear anything over the howling wind and his own breath. After finding this method unsuccessful, he continued on. After another moment or two, he heard a snarl. Instinctively, he reached for his bow, but just as he turned, he was overtaken suddenly in a mass of teeth and blood. He slammed against the snow, the beast just next to him. It got up on its feet and shook the snow from its fur. Two others were with it, and, Legolas, after regaining his senses, recognized them as wargs. He unsheathed his white knives and killed the first warg who pounced. The next warg came after him had a rider. As Legolas plunged his knife deep into the beast's vitals, its rider slammed him in the head with an iron bar. He fell into the snow, but was quickly revived by its coolness. He stood up and reach for his bow once more, but cried aloud when he found it to be missing. He hit his knees and frantically searched through the powder with his bare hands as the last warg came snarling.

His fingers grasped metal, and he pulled out one of his knives from the snow. He turned and slew the rider of the second warg, and turned back just in time to kill the second as it pounced. It stopped in mid air, and Legolas rose to his feet and yanked out his weapon. Not waiting or another brawl, he immediately proceeded in his walk after not finding his bow. He trudged on through the storm. He spit the blood from his mouth and realized a few teeth had been loosened from the earlier blow. Blood dripped from a gash on his arm inflicted by the jaws of the predators. He at last slumped over and, exhausted, fell victim to sleep.

"My lord!" cried a rider to Éomer, who turned in his saddle to see the man through the flying snow.

"What is it, Gildal?" he shouted, trying to carry his voice over the wind. Gildal, a clean shaven, young man of Edoras had joined the Rohirrim to honor his father who had died under the oath. Gildal continued:

"My lord, we must turn back! The snow will prevent us from returning in time!" The Rohirrim had been gallivanting about for the past few weeks, taking out what remained of the Orc colonies. The Orcs roamed through the Gap of Rohan. They feared dwelling too far beyond those borders. They hid in and among the ruins of Isengard, quarreling and fighting and killing as they had always done.

At last, the kings of Middle Earth formed a bond between Gondor and Rohan, which enabled their forces to wash away the filth of the Orcs. Gondorian soldiers patrolled the coast and up to the skeleton-like remains of the black gate. No man still dared to enter there. The land still retained a purely evil essence, and everywhere the rocks reeked with the odor of destruction and malice. The Riders of Rohan patrolled the Gap, Isengard, and all the land into their borders. Now, they were heading into the Gap after having spied on a group of Orcs seen there earlier. They were only a few leagues from Edoras then. Earlier, they planned to circle around and make camp near Minas Tirith, but the snow began to fall quite heavily, so they came to the conclusion of returning to Edoras. The journey into the blizzard would force them to make camp during the night. It was much too cold for the men and their horses to endure the bitter wind for so long. Éomer ordered the men to ride back to Edoras, and announced that they would return the next day. His men mounted their steeds, and followed him back through the gyrating mass of white.

"To arms!" a cry rang out over the wind. Gildal had ordered the men to stop after seeing a band of Orcs in the hazy distance. After receiving a nod of approval from Éomer, they charged forward, but found that the band of Orcs they had seen were already slain. The Rohirrim scavenged the corpses for useful items and weapons. Éomer came upon something quite strange: a mighty bow, now splintered and cloven in two, and an Elven brooch. After he mused over it for a moment, he realized to whom they had belonged.

"Gildal!" he cried, waving his hand. "Send your quickest rider to Minas Tirith!" he said, wrapping the items in a piece of cloth. "Take these to Lord Aragorn. He needs no message," he finished quietly. Almost immediately, a rider was off through the storm, carrying the parcel which would bring great woe to the king of Gondor. "Now," cried Éomer, "ride back to Edoras! To Edoras!" They began the ride back, but they still had to make it through the pass and back to Edoras.

Aragorn quickly called for the gates of his city to be opened; he hastened to let the lone rider in. He quickly ran to greet the man and take him in to shelter and food.

"What brings you this way?" asked Aragorn. "I thought you to be returning to Edoras nearly two nights ago!" The errand rider quickly relayed the message from Éomer. "King Éomer sends you these." he began. "He said no words would be needed." He presented the parcel to Aragorn, who took it and thanked the man.

"Have my aide assist you to some quarters where you can sleep in peace and warmth tonight," said Aragorn, and thanked the man once more. Once the rider was situated and fed, Aragorn retreated back to his quarters. He set the parcel on the blanket and eyed it suspiciously, the way one eyes a dubious character. After much hesitation, he lifted the soft parcel and carefully dumped its contents across the bed. The moment his eyes lay upon them, they burned with tears. His throat swelled and throbbed. And, as it seemed she always did, Arwen arrived just in time to comfort him. She too recognized the bow and green brooch.

"This means nothing," she began, but Aragorn stopped her.

"He is not so easily parted with his weapons, and the leaves of Lorien seldom fall. Where is this hope you speak of?" It was a rhetorical question, Arwen knew, and so she did not attempt to burden him with sentiments and false hope. The truth was clear to see, and even she could not sway Aragorn.

Aragorn left his chambers and went onto the courtyard. The tree was dying, much like Aragorn was inside. Just as his strength failed in the loss of a dear friend, so did the tree. It had lost its white gleam, and stood now covered in snow, bare and unclad against the world. He knelt there, undisturbed yet terribly burdened, pouring his anger and sorrow in a mix of tears and memories. His heart ached and burned with the fires of Oroduin. His loss was great.


	3. Chapter II

2

The Rohirrim had reached Edoras safely, planning to stay there only over night. The next morning promised to be another day of a highly unenjoyable game of cat and mouse: hunter and hunted. The men went quietly to their homes and nothing was spoken that night for all of them were weary. They slept well, inside a fire warmed house and had the pleasure of a hot meal. They readied to ride the next morning, but a page came from the palace with a message that greeted their ears, "The weather is still too brutal. Take another day to enjoy yourselves!" The men drank and ate and sang all day, merrily humming tunes of winter. They went to bed yet again.

A bleak dawn arrived the next morning, however. The sky was overcast, and looked to be preparing to pour another load of snow unto them. Éomer and his men rode out into this dawn, well rested and well fed, ready for another day of hardly renowned work. After only a few hours and many leagues from the city, the passive sky unleashed its fury in a surprise attack of a blizzard. Once again, due to the harsh weather, Éomer was forced to order his men to retreat to the shelter of Edoras. He quickly sent the order and they were hurrying through the fresh powder.

Éomer and his men were still struggling through the storm, which had considerably worsened, when one of the riders began experiencing problems with his horse. His steed shrilly neighed and snorted, prancing around and threatening to throw his rider.

"Arod!" he cried. "What madness is this?" Just as the horse began to calm down and ride respectfully among the ranks, he stopped suddenly and firmly in the snow and refused to go any further. "Arod! Move on!" cried his master. But Arod refused to venture another stride. He reared in fury and anger, dumping his rider in the snow. The man, unharmed, quickly rose and brushed himself off. "You crazy mule. . ." his voice trailed off suddenly as he saw something in the snow. It was a body, laying in a heap. He was at first amazed that no horse had trodden upon it in the limited range of visibility, and wondered why Arod had stopped at him. Perhaps frightened, or maybe just wary of the figure. "My lord!" he yelled. The other riders had halted, seeing that their comrade had been dismounted. Éomer rode up quickly.

"What is it? What madness keeps our horse?" he asked.

"My lord, there is something in the snow. I'm afraid its frightened my horse," he said. Éomer and he rushed to the figure. It was a man (or so they thought), clothed lightly and covered in snow. His cloak was soaking up blood whose source was unknown. He was recognized immediately by Éomer as not a man, but an elf. "Legolas!" he shouted, astonished at his return yet oppressed at the manner of it. "Legolas!" he called again, giving him a small shake. After no response, the other rider, Aldar, quickly scanned him.

"He is alive!"blared Aldar in amazement. "He is still alive!"

"Not for long," said Éomer gravely, judging by his pale complexion and his chilled hands and brow. "Let me ride Arod," he said suddenly. "This horse bore Legolas during the war. It is a wonder he stopped at sensing his old rider! The Elves have a way with horses." He strode to Arod and patted his neck in praise. He carefully mounted and positioned Legolas in front of him. Soon, Aldar found a new mount, and Éomer announced to his men, "To Edoras! We make great haste!" he charged into the snow, Arod showing him the true meaning of hurry.

They sped quickly and quietly over the land, and it would have been nearly enjoyable if it weren't for the biting wind and the race for life. Arod's foot falls fell lightly and rapidly over the snow, making it easier for Éomer to keep Legolas from swaying and falling. As they passed swiftly, the wide valley sent a chill down Aldar's spine. The whirling white abyss seemed so intoxicating that it lured him into dangers unknown. Like a venus fly trap, it attracts its prey with sheer beauty, then clamps down mercilessly, sending the victim into the lurking shadows.

Soon, shouts and whoops were heard among the thick ranks. The city was seen in the distance, even through the heavy snow. At last, they passed through the gate, and Éomer rode quickly to the palace.

He dismounted and thudded into the snow. Legolas swayed like a drunken man and fell sideways from the horse, but was caught swiftly by Éomer just before he struck the ground. He was brought quickly to the guest chambers and laid in a warm bed. His body sank into the multitude of blankets, but no expression crossed his face. Éomer found a wound to Legolas' shoulder; a gash had been opened by the jaws of the warg, and blood seeped through his clothes and cloak. After he cleaned and carefully dressed the wound, Éomer sat down on a chair next to the bed. It creaked as he leaned back with a sigh. "He will recover," he said slowly to Gildal. "It is a case of languor in the most extreme, not to mention exposure to the elements for nearly a week without food or water. If that wouldn't bring one to death, an attack surely would. And yet he managed to survive." He shook his head in amazement, and a slight grin appeared, but passed quickly like the golden leaves in autumn. He looked over his shoulder to Legolas, whose breathe came so discretely that it was barely noticeable. He was even more colorless than his usual fair complexion, if that was even possible. His temperature failed to raise, although the blankets promised to warm him.

"Should we send another rider to Gondor?" asked Gildal, "To inform Lord Aragorn,"

"Nay, we can not. The weather will not permit us to leave here for at least another week," said Éomer sullenly. He then bid Gildal to leave for the night, and assumed an understood duty to watch over Legolas t while the winter moon cast a shadow over the bed.

As the hours crawled slowly by, Éomer struggled to keep awake. First, he peered at the paintings and hangings that adorned the wooden walls, but soon lost interest in them, not being able to view their contents in the darkness. As he began to doze off, he quickly jolted up again, forcing himself to stay awake. He began to twiddle his fingers about. Next he quietly tapped the floor with his boot. He began to do anything just to keep him awake. The flame of the candle caught his eye. It flickered and danced, failing to light the room as it once had earlier. It was, to Éomer, a symbol of Legolas' life force; it dimly burned, casting no heat and hardly any light onto the walls of the room. The very temperature of the room seemed to be a threatening evil, trying to stamp out the flame. As he got lost in the flame, sleep played at his eyelids and Éomer began to doze off. Soon, he fell into deep sleep which he had longed for . He became inanimate, like the stones in the foundation of the mountain; no longer a force, but a strong defense.

He startled into life a few hours after dawn. Quickly his glance stole to Legolas, and he called Gildal for assistance. When Gildal arrived, he stood in a state of shock at Éomer's command. "What is it my lord?" he asked. He was out of breath after hurrying to his lord's call. "What is wrong? He hasn't moved," he said again.

"I know," said Éomer deeply. "That is what unsettles me." He and Gildal eyed him suspiciously from a few paces away. They didn't want to approach him, it felt strange being in the presence of an Elf, and a wounded Elf at that. Finally, Gildal spoke.

"He hasn't moved," he began, watching Legolas' chest rise and fall slowly and regularly as he breathed the air of healing. "Should we wake him?" he asked. A resounding censure echoed from Éomer's lips.

"He is still very weak, I think. It is difficult to care for his race; they are so subtle and so tractable. I think we must leave him to rest. He will come around soon enough," said Éomer's friend, a man who had doctored his Uncle before the days of the war. He was a barrel-chested old man, but with plenty of spirit and life under his belt. Along with that came wisdom and knowledge of old lore and medicine. He was clearly an asset to the Kingdom.

"The days are growing dark," said Aragorn. "There was a time of celebration! Of music and dancing and joy, but it too has now passed. It has passed like the moon over the horizon of a new age. A new threat grows. It casts a shadow that veils my kingdom in silence and fills the air with such heavy languor that I can nearly taste it."

"Do not believe this!" cried the fair Arwen. "It is only a shadow of your grief, and you will overcome it. A loss such as this is indeed great, but don't allow it to bring your city to this. So much relish used to dance in the streets and echo from the great walls of your fathers. You have overcome the prophecy and brought life to Gondor!" She became beleaguered at his present state of prowess and strove to enlighten his spirits. But it could not be done, at least not by her, and so she left him in the chambers of the kings.

Éomer received an urgent message later that night. As he was strolling about on the hillside, a page ran to him rapidly and reported to him out of breath: "My lord, the Elf is gone!" he said through a few pants and gasps. After Éomer scowled, half in thought and half in his own torpidness to not keep watch, the messenger took it personally and apologized. "I'm sorry,"

"He can't possibly have gone! Is he walking? He can't go anywhere without a horse through this weather. . ." his voice trailed off as the page looked earnestly at him and suddenly tore back up the hill, Éomer right behind him. They reached the stables and, indeed, a horse was missing; its stall door hung open and creaked back and forth in the arctic wind flowing through the stable. Éomer looked into the snow with disbelief. He then ran to the room in which Legolas had slept and found a small parchment on the soft bed. In undeniable certainty, it was his writing; the fine print flowed across the page:

I am eternally in your debt

Thank you for your care and guardianship. I will ever strive to repay you.

I would leave something in return to this debt, but I have naught to give.

"He has gone," said Éomer at last. "I pray he makes it through the weather."

Aragorn shouted from inside the sheltered walls of Minas Tirith. "Open the gates!" he cried. He was surprised to see yet another lone rider come so far through the storm. He watched from a distance as the man strode in on his horse. Aragorn suddenly realized that this man was not one of Rohan's riders. He eyed the man carefully as he dismounted. He stood tall at first, but then slumped, and Aragorn noticed that as he walked, he had a slight limp to his step. The man faltered up the many levels of the city, occasionally halting to rest like a winded old man after a reckless climb. At last, the hooded figure came to a guard outside of Aragorn's domain. Aragorn watched as the guard of the Citadel trotted in from the snow.

"My lord," he said bowing. "This man wishes to speak with you. He would not tell me on what matter, but only that his name is Legolas," the guard said, oblivious of the loss of Aragorn's ally and trusted friend. The very mention of the name burned Aragorn like a brand straight from the ashes. Angered, Aragorn walked around the doors and went through the side, coming out behind the cloaked visitor. He crept slowly, like a panther stalking its weakened prey. His sword flashed and he held it at the stranger's back. The man, unwilling to fight or not knowing of Aragorn's presence, made no move. Deciding not yet to bring death upon this deceitful man, Aragorn swung his sword around and struck the man on the back of the head with the heavy handle. A cry rang out shortly as the stranger truckled. He then turned his hooded face to Aragorn, but was again struck by the metal. Aragorn was attempting to release fury in a kingly manner. He pursed his lips in anger, and then bit them as if it would prevent his mouth from telling himself to hit the man again. Suddenly, the stranger rose with new strength, and Aragorn wielded his mighty Anduril, Flame of the West. The man blocked blow after blow, sporadically receiving a few. Aragorn was fully enraged and flung his sword to the ground. The guard watched as snow and fists and blind rage flew through the courtyard. At last, after taking a final blow from Aragorn, the man shrunk and turned his back to him. He winced in pain and exhaustedly choked. He then rose steadily and slowly after yielding to quite a lambasting from Aragorn, and once again, Aragorn had his sword raised.

"Who are you?" he asked in a bitterly invective tone. "Turn, show yourself, you hector!" The man turned slowly and seemed to creak. As he was nearly turned fully around, he uttered Aragorn's name softly and abruptly collapsed into Aragorn's arms, his hood thrown over, revealing his identity. Aragorn sat into the snow, holding his weakened friend Legolas above the cold, snow-laden ground. He gently laid Legolas down. Legolas looked up at him and flashed his bright eyes. His face remained expressionless, and, Aragorn thought, seemed unpredictable like the rains of spring: light and friendly, but potentially dangerous. Legolas panted and gasped for breath, thoroughly drained of energy. Without a single word passing from either of their lips, Aragorn helped Legolas to his feet and assisted him out of the court yard and into a great hall that echoed the voices of the Kings of Old. Legolas limped over to the notable table stretching nearly a quarter of the length of the hall. He stooped onto it, shifting his weight from his injured leg to the other.

Aragorn busied himself by making some sort of drink which was known to heal those who suffer. He looked with a gesture of joy to Legolas, and also of sympathy. He fumbled through his mind, searching for the right words. "I will tell my guards to stable your horse for the night," said Aragorn quickly. Legolas nodded in approval. He hadn't yet recovered his voice. After only a few minutes, Aragorn put an arm over Legolas. "I am sorry, but you'll have to hobble a bit further. We can go to my quarters just down the hall. It will be more confidential, a better place to speak." Aragorn said apologetically. They passed slowly through the great white hall and passed through grand wooden doors and into yet another vast room in the center of which Aragorn's throne sat, empty as one who has not passed wine through the lips in many days. Legolas seated himself t a much smaller and strangely consoling table. Aragorn took a seat directly across from Legolas and nearly spilled the drink he prepared; his hands quivered with the new found fervor for his friend. After Legolas had begun to sip his drink with much gratitude, Aragorn began conversation. His eyes grew wide and Legolas saw lassitude. "Why did you abandon your fate? How did you make it here through this weather?" Never before had Legolas heard Aragorn's voice, the voice of a mighty king and strong warrior, quaver and seem so weak. He gathered up strength to respond.

"I can hear the fear in your voice." he said slowly. "What has happened?" His voice was hushed.

"You are alive! For the longest time I though you were dead. Lost forever." To Aragorn's surprise, and even to his own, Legolas laughed. It felt good to finally laugh after doom has passed.

"Dead?" he asked, the word falling heavily out from his lips as a slight grin cut across his wind-burned cheeks. "Why?"

"I received news first from Valinor, and also from Éomer. They brought me these," he said. For a moment, he disappeared from the table, reaching underneath, but came back again holding a parcel. He handed it to Legolas, who took it out and cried aloud with grief.

"My bow," he said ruefully, running its fingers along the once mighty weapon, now only shards of smooth, worn wood. "A gift from the fair Lady Galadriel." he paused, "I don't suppose I'll find much use of it now." He rummaged through the package some more and pulled out his brooch. He fingered it for a moment. He then set it gently on the table, along with the remains of his bow.

"How did it come to this?" asked Aragorn, picking up the splintered bow, wishing somehow he cold mend it. "Your arrival here in this present state arises questions."

"I was attacked by wargs, but I do not recall much of that, except that it tore my arm. I needed to reach you, and decided not to stop. The cold set in, and my arms and legs throbbed. I kept pushing farther until a sudden darkness took me. Lord Éomer and his riders found me, much thanks to Arod, and took me to Edoras, where they carried me into the palace and watched over me. They tended my wounds and kept me warm. I was unable to thank them in person; I woke for the first time in the palace and was in a hurry to find you."

"Your arm is deeply cut. Let me tend to it," said Aragorn, rising from his seat. But Legolas put his hand up in protest, and so Aragorn sat again. "At least allow me to bandage it after our meal," he said. Legolas agreed. There was a long silence, and Aragorn wished Legolas to tell him of all his tales in getting here, but he knew that he could ask no more of his loyal friend, especially after a trying journey such as his. The silence continued for a few brief moments. Legolas looked up at Aragorn while drinking the warm, soothing draught Aragorn made. Aragorn returned the glance, and they both stared at each other blankly. Finally, Legolas smiled. Aragorn hadn't seen this come across his face since the day they met in Rivendell. He hadn't seen him smile since before the journey that almost cost their lives.

"There is much to learn about your arrival here," said Aragorn. Legolas nodded. At this point, he was not one to perorate.

"There is indeed," he said through another sip. "Shall I tell you?" His inquisitive and noble yet somehow raffish tone returned, making the conversation seem more normal.

"Of course!" said Aragorn, rising from the table. "That is, if you are willing,"

"Always," said Legolas, doing likewise. As he turned to walk, he stumbled and fell onto the table. The cups and vase fell in a loud clatter. His arms quivered as he lifted himself pendulously from the table, gritting his teeth and tightly closing his eyes in pain and embarrassment. His cheeks flushed a bit, giving Legolas some color on his pale face, making him seem less peaked. Whether from clumsiness or weariness (Aragorn guessed the latter), Legolas couldn't walk properly. Aragorn helped him to his feet and smiled gently, which was in much contrast to the weathered, invective face of stone he had acquired during the past few years.

"Come and rest now. You have come a long way and have endured a taxing excursion," said Aragorn, leading Legolas into a bedroom. The candle beside the bed seemed to float menacingly in the darkness. It failed to fully light the room, and gave of a rather eerie glow. As he sat on the bed, Legolas spoke.

"Forgive me," he began. "I am so weary that I must rest, but there is much to speak of."

"There is naught to forgive," said Aragorn sincerely. "Sleep in peace tonight; this city is safe." Aragorn quickly bade Legolas good-night and left him to have some much needed rest.


	4. Chapter III

3

Legolas, however, did not have a good rest. He, in fact, did not sleep at all during the night. Rather, he lay silently and gazed at the stars wielding overtop Minas Tirith. After staring endlessly at the black sky, Legolas sat up, stretching his back and yawning. He was indeed quite tired, but something drew him towards the window. Perhaps it was his curiosity, or his wonder of the stars. Whatever it was, it had a strong grip over him. He rose silently and slipped across the room and leaned on the dusty windowsill that faced the eastern borders. It seemed strange to him that only a while ago he looked to Mordor in fear and anxiousness. He looked at it now. Something stole his glance, and then his breath.

Dozens of random, indefinable images flashed rapidly through his mind. It became so fast that it was merely a blur of lights and noise. The noise grew, louder and louder, until it became a roar. It was the sound which he learned to hate, the sound of evil; torture, clanging, and the marching terror of the enemy's army all flooded into his mind. The grip now turned to iron and clenched him uncontrollably. He breathing became faster and more difficult as the noise grew louder and the images clearer. They spun and gyrated faster and faster, and then came the angry, ghastly scream of rage. The gripping factor that had a hold on Legolas hurled him across the room.

He was in his bed. He sat up and panted, his eyes wide with amazement. Was it only a dream? He remembered the tight grip around him. It had felt so real and extremely painful. He felt the sides of his ribs where the villain had grabbed him. He cried aloud in astonishment. Startled at this strange turn of events, he leapt up, and, despite his injuries, ran quickly to Aragorn.

The hour was late and the sun still had not peaked over the mountains. It was not dark; the snow covered ground was enough to reflect the light of the moon and cast large shadows upon the cold stone. The stars were now veiled, but the moon shone brightly upon him, making him seem even more ghostlike with his pale complexion. He ran towards the hall he entered earlier that day. After slipping on the snow a few times, Legolas came upon the hall. He stumbled up to it and hurriedly opened the doors, much to the anger of the guards of the Citadel who could not reach him before he entered. He slipped and slid his way down the marble hallway. He was surprised to find that Aragorn was also not asleep at this hour. He was sitting at the table, staring widely, but at what Legolas did not know. Aragorn was in deep thought, and shook his head when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Aragorn!" called Legolas, not being able to run but still keeping a brisk pace. Aragorn erupted from his seat at seeing him up so late.

"What troubles you at this hour?" asked Aragorn. He scanned Legolas and saw the cuts in his sides, like a great beast had grabbed him and left gashed with its terribly enormous claws. "What happened to you? Where have you been?" He started from the table.

"In the bedroom," began Legolas. His eyes widened. "The window- towards the East!" he spoke wildly and quickly so that Aragorn could not decipher his words. Legolas began t mumble in this crazed tone, which astounded Aragorn; he had never seen Legolas behave so strangely. He was quite raffish and seemed to be ill. Aragorn took a hold on Legolas' shoulders and firmly spoke.

"Legolas, tell me what happened. What did you see?" Legolas' lips moved soundlessly, and his expression became confused for a moment, and he was silent. "Can you show me?" asked Aragorn hopefully. Legolas looked around him, his eyes flashing brightly in the darkness. To Aragorn, he looked strangely like a mad man.

"Did you see?" he asked quickly, his keen eyes searching Aragorn's for expression. "Did you see in the East?" With no response and an assumed 'no', Legolas continued. "Then you heard it," he said pleadingly. "Am I the only one who saw it?" When Aragorn made no response, Legolas erupted in clamor. "Look into the Palantir! You will see. Evil is brewing! I saw it. A great host lies in wait. I heard it, and I heard _him_. He screamed at me in rage! He was holding me. He grabbed me, and then flung me across the room! I felt him!" He beckoned at Aragorn to look at his ripped clothing and cuts in his side, now staining his garb with blood.

"Legolas, Sauron is defeated. He can not have returned. You were dreaming, perhaps," said Aragorn calmly. "You can't have talked to him." Aragorn was trying to reason the present events. He looked decisively at Legolas' cuts; there was proof, but of what, Aragorn did not know.

"But I have!" protested Legolas, acting as strangely as ever. His current manner was in much contrast to his usually silent, quick-witted, and rational self. "You must believe me. Our lives depend on it. Just look, you will see! You will hear him, and maybe even see him. A shadow grows in my mind, Aragorn. He will be ready to strike. . ." he was cut off when Aragorn spoke again.

"Legolas, can you show me?" Legolas shook his head.

"It's out the window. I can't look again. _You _must look. He'll find me." Legolas fearfully looked at Aragorn. His sincere eyes pierced Aragorn's core, and he wondered if it was true: could there be another dark power rising? Aragorn tried to shake the thought, but knew that Legolas was loyal and wouldn't deceive him.

"No one will find you," said Aragorn, putting a hand on Legolas' shoulder. He lead Legolas out onto the courtyard, where the guards suspiciously eyed Legolas. "Now, where is it?" asked Aragorn. Legolas extended one of his slender fingers towards the ruins of the black gate before th city of Osgiliath. Though unwillingly, Legolas' eyes were wrenched to the evil land, where the grasp about him became ferociously strong. The images flashed quickly, but the noise was the worst. It was undoubtedly the cry of the Ringwraith's winged steed. Then, one single image arose, and he was nearing the fire of Oroduin, where a secret was soon to be revealed. He noise became louder, and Legolas could feel the heat of the mountain pounding on him.

Aragorn watched Legolas cry out in pain and clamp his hands over his ears, digging his fingers into his temples. Just as Legolas felt the grip release him Aragorn watched Legolas come back into reality. His hands were at his sides and his eyes were no longer glazed with insanity. He had a sad, far away look on his face.

"Legolas?" asked Aragorn. Legolas did not respond. He slowly turned his face towards Aragorn, and Legolas' ultimately spiritless, melancholy expression surprised him. "Legolas, what did you see?" Legolas was overcome by the images and sounds and emotion. This, combined with his weariness and injuries, were altogether too much to handle. "Legolas?" said Aragorn again, the concern was distinctly in his voice. Legolas blinked once, swayed, and swooned, collapsing in a heap onto the snow. The guards, who were watching the ordeal, hastened to the scene and bent over Legolas. They pondered as they hovered over him.

"He's mad!" cried one. "Bring him to the prison,"

"Nay," said Aragorn sternly, but the guard argued.

"He's gone absolutely zany, m'lord. Sauron is back, is he?" the guard laughed, but was soon quieted by Aragorn's invective tone.

"He is ill," said Aragorn, beginning a long tirade. "He is weak and injured, and traveled for many leagues to get here. He is still wearied." No one made any remarks. "I do not know what he has seen, but I assure you: Sauron is destroyed." The guards made no move nor sound. "Go now! To your posts!" Aragorn brought Legolas into the hall, where Arwen was waiting.

"Where have you. . ." her voice trailed off as she saw who Aragorn had with him. "He is back! When did he arrive here?" She studied him as Aragorn walked past her silently. She gasped and her eyes widened. As Aragorn laid Legolas on a bed, Arwen rushed up behind him. She gently put her hand on his cheek, but quickly drew it away at the icy touch. His fair complexion was now even more pale than her own. She spoke to Aragorn slowly and hesitantly, fixing her eyes back and forth from her husband to Legolas. "Is he. . .?"

"Dead?" finished Aragorn thoughtfully. "No," He stood silently in thought. "Though he is exhausted. He came to me, begging me to look into the palantïr. He warned me that evil is rising in the East. He says he saw it when he looked out his window. I asked him to show me. After he did, he swooned and I brought him here. My guards think he is crazy."

"What do _you_ think?" Arwen asked, laying her gentle hand upon his.

"I don't know. Legolas is steadfast and loyal. He would never send me astray. Alhtough I am sure he wouldn't send me to my doom, I fear my guards are in the right. Perhaps he is mad. But no, he is ill." Aragorn went on, convincing himself that Legolas only needed rest. "I told him I would look, but I am still quite hesitant; I don't believe I will." He walked back to the table to resume his thinking and planning and left Arwen to care for Legolas. Aragorn couldn't shake the thought of Legolas and his indeed absurd fantasies that night. He could not help but notice the gashes on his sides. Where else could they have come from? Aragorn sat in deep deliberation for most of the remainder of the night.

The following dawn was joyless A chill had settled in the air, going deep into the bones. The guards' breath could be seen coming in small puffs of moisture evident in the air. They huddled next to each other. The cold seemed to steal the very soul of the guards; it entered into their lungs with each breath, burrowing down into their bodies and killing them like a parasite. An eerie fog settled in the valley. It acted as a sort of spiritual boundary. It was a veil of peace that separated Gondor from the Black Gate of Mordor. The fog captivated Aragorn's glance, and he stared at it with some amusement. He stared widely across the meadow and hoped he might see something to help him understand the abstruse images and pain endured by Legolas. As he found nothing, he began to loose hope.

Aragorn nervously rubbed the back of his neck and thought to himself. _Maybe he _is _crazy_. _It is possible; many men who have seen such things as he break down long before this. A man (or elf) can only bear so much death in one lifetime. Perhaps this is the reason the elves leave for Valinor._ He troubled himself with this. _He bid me look into the palantir. Perhaps I will indeed find something. _He looked over to it. It sat on a stone pedestal like a prisoner awaiting judgement. Aragorn had feared the power of the orb, or rather, who may have been watching on the other side with hateful eyes. _There is none to fear. I told Legolas that myself. There is no reason that I should regret to look into it. It is but a gift now, rather than a burden as before._ He reached out for it, but recoiled his hand. He did not know why, but he still dreaded the palantir.

"Why do you fear it?" asked a voice from behind. From the tone, Aragorn would have never guessed it was Legolas. Legolas advanced. "You told me there is none to fear. Why do you wait?" he asked with hungry eyes. He somehow eagerly awaited Aragorn's procession.

"I am strong enough to bear it, or so have I guessed. I do not fear it," said Aragorn with an air of vanity.

"Why then, do you hesitate?" Aragorn made no answer to this, and Legolas concurred. "You do fear it? I shall tell you why: you know that you will find something that you are not ready to cope with. Look! And you will see that I do not deceive you."

"No, I do not look because I do not wish to look," said Aragorn, his pride rising.

"You refuse because you are afraid!"

"**_I_** will be the judge of that!" yelled Aragorn, rising up from his seat and slamming his fist onto the table. Legolas did not flinch nor change his expression. He stared at Aragorn with a look of determination. It could be confused with anger, but Aragorn knew better. Aragorn clenched his jaw. He began slowly, "No, _friend_ ," he spat the word out carefully. "I will not look. You are tired. Go, and rest. You have had a long and trying journey." Legolas said nothing, but turned away and walked (with some difficulty) out of the chamber.

A cold dawn followed that next morning, and when the sun rose over the mountains, Aragorn remained at his seat he had taken the night before. All night, he had stared at the marble ball; it seemed to glow during the sark hours, making it seem like a living being itself, all the more reason Aragorn should fear it. He was asleep at the moment. His muddy brown hair spread over his face and onto the table. He remained in this manner until rudely awakened with a clamor and a sickening thud. He started form his seat and jumped slightly. He quickly rubbed his eyes, and when they came into focus, looked straight into the eyes of his fair wife.

"What is it?" he asked gently, leaning his head back upon the table.

"It's Legolas," she said quietly.

"What about him?" asked Aragorn rising once more. Concern was in his voice as he beckoned her to continue.

"He's left."

"Left?" asked Aragorn, his voice rising. "When?"

"Last night."

"How? How did he get past my guards?"

"He tied them up," said Arwen, feeling defenseless, as she always did when in the presence of anger. She was slightly overwhelmed in light of the recent events and the current relatioship between Legolas and the king.

"Where has he gone?!" cried Aragorn, now taking a brisk pace towards the terrace; his stomps echoed off the dreary walls. Arwen let a tear escape. She felt so vulnerable at this moment that it was hardly bearable. Aragorn noticed this, and so he stopped and gently took her by the shoulders.

"Meleithamin," he began. "Where has he stolen to?" Arwen shook her head, but managed to spit out a few words.

"I, I don't know," she sniffed. "But he left this message for you," She held a scroll out to him. He took it into his hands and read the commonly neat script. With a growl, he threw the parchment on the ground, stomping on it as he walked away. Arwen stood there, her hair blowing in the wind, and silently wept. She turned to watch the parchment flick and flitter with the wind up and down the entrance to the terrace until at last it took flight and disappeared over the wall.


	5. Chapter IV

4

Aragorn found himself once again staring at the palantir. It sat there, still and impregnable. Its very presence seemed to mock him. He thought to himself, as was common in the past hours. _Why would he leave? And _there_ of all places? Certainly he does not seek _him_! There is nothing there but smoke and ruin._ He stopped for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin. _Why am I trying to convince myself? I said that there's nothing there; I have nothing to worry about._ His eyes flashed to the orb again, and he leapt fro, his seat and snatched it from its resting place.

"I do not fear you," he mumbled to himself. He sat back in his chair and put the ball onto the table. He positioned his hands upon it, and immediately they began to tingle. _What am I doing? What am I looking for?_ He looked at the palantir. It stared back without eyes, and spoke with no voice:

"Go on, look! You know in your heart that Legolas goes to doom. So go ahead, prove to yourself that there's nothing to fear!" Aragorn seized the palantir once more. _I'll silence you!_

His grip turned to stone and the overwhelming sensation consumed him as he seemed to sift through time and terrible images. Sound pounded in his ears, and he shuddered. All he could hear were screams. Screams. Then corpses flooded his head; terrible images of soldiers, lying about, strewn all over. A foul stench came from the carrion that was left for the wild beasts to feast upon. The anguish stole Aragorn's heart. A beating of some sort filled his ears again, and it boomed at him, chanting at him. He saw elves, thousands of them. They were fleeing, but from what he could not tell. He saw elves, and men, being slain. They were cut down like wheat on a good harvest day. Their moans of agony were faint, just above the pounding. There were ships,sailing across the sea. Finally, he saw the real doom: a mass force was being brewed within the confines of the black land. They howled and cackled, beating upon their stout armor. A hateful voice called him. He called and called and called, "Aragorn! Aragorn!" The voice was so horrid that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The voice suddenly faded into a plea, crying for help. He saw Legolas, and Aragorn cried out in reply. . .

"Aragorn!" cried Arwen. He snapped back into reality and looked at the small group of people that had formed around him. "Aragorn?" she spoke to him and put her hand on his shoulder, he was now on the floor. He loosened his grip on the palantir and it merrily rolled across the floor, but everyone dodged it as if it were a snake, slithering to and fro, waiting for someone on which to bestow a deadly bite. Aragorn leapt up instantly, and ran hastily to his room, grabbing Arwen by the arm and hurrying her along with him. "What is happening?" she asked, a bit frightened of this strange look that had come across his face. He replied rather frantically.

"Legolas is in danger!" he said. "He was right,"

"Right about what?" she asked intently.

"_Him_,"

"What? What do you mean?"

"_He_'s back! For revenge? Maybe. For destruction? Of course."

"You are not making any sense!" cried Arwen. "What did you see? What did you see that makes you behave this way?"

"No, not only what I saw," said Aragorn, "but what I _heard_. There were bodies everywhere, men and elves. A massive force grows in secret. The east powers are brewing up a storm that none can withstand! You should have heard the screams! And the howls. . ." he trailed off and shuddered. Suddenly, Arwen calmed herself and embraced him. With a kiss, she said:

"Meliethamin, do not be alarmed." Aragorn looked at hear and raised an eyebrow. She continued, "What you have seen is not what is to come, but what has _already_ been done. Know you nothing of the battle? My father was there, and described it to me just as you have. Have not any fear, for we are safe, and Sauron is defeated." Aragorn walked to the bed and sat down on it. The blankets embraced him. He felt a bit embarrassed. _Why hadn't I thought of that? I should know better than to jump to conclusions._ He even let out a small chuckle. He sighed.

"Come, let us rest. Legolas will find nothing, and return with nothing, and our quarrel will be over."


End file.
